Bitten by the Earl
Lords of the Night
Book two
Sandra Sookoo
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
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BITTEN BY THE EARL © 2019
by Sandra Sookoo
[email protected]
Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com
Published by Blue Tulip Publishing
http://www.bluetulippublishing.com/
ISBN- 978-1-946061-31-7
Edited by: Angie Eads and Heather Garcia
Book Cover Design by David Sookoo
Couple:– Hot Damn Stock
Background images: Deposit Photos
First Digital Edition: 2019
Dedication
To Amber Bell Wentworth. Thank you for your unwavering support over the years. I hope you enjoy Rafe!
Acknowledgements
There is much work that goes into putting out a book, and while the author spends the bulk of that time alone, locked away with their computer and their characters, there are times when it’s essential that friends and readers have a bit of input. I’d like to thank the following people and Facebook friends for all their help and input on various topics while this book was in the writing stage:
My friend Sue Brandes, for always posting pictures of her cats, and to her kitty, Hope, from whence I borrowed the name for Elizabeth's kitten.
Help in naming my heroine.
Shawnee Swick, Tricia Pariso Anderson, Melissa DeBoard, Danielle Dani DeBuono, Angie Eads, Karen M. Llanes, Jill James, Stephanie Cain, Kristin Gearns Bane, Tina Marie Harden-Young, Cindy Bartolotta, Lori Farner Dykes, Elaine Cantrell, Michele Worley, Julie Eichelberger-Ford, Sandy Kenny, Debbie Doggett, Jennifer Jakes, Cindy Drennan von Hentschel, Jennifer August, JJ Nite, Anna Katharine Koehler, Cheryl Sacripanti, Alison Pridie PA, Marci Baun, Saralee Etter, Roni Denholtz, Tana Hillman, Sue Perkins, Christine Ashworth, Charlene Whitehouse, Jennifer Gryner Coleman, Lilly Gayle, Em Taylor, Monique Daoust, Staci Baker Garrett, Sheryl Wamsley Walton, Victoria Hamilton, Stephanie Smith
Blurb
He loves her but can’t convince her... Rafe Andrew Edward Astley, Twelfth Earl of Devon, toils beneath an ancient curse as a vampire. He has made peace with that side of him long ago, except if he cannot banish his beast, he’ll never win the one woman he can never forget, the woman he fell for years ago when he stole that which he hadn’t a right. Yet this Christmastide season holds promise.
She fears his beast but wants the man... Lady Elizabeth Sinclair, sister to the Duke of Manchester, is content with her life and her charity work, but she longs for something more. Older and wiser since the last time she fell in love, she puts herself on the Marriage Mart, where she tangles with the one man she fears, the man who took her blood and her innocence eleven years before, the man she still craves. But horror of what he is keeps her wary, despite romance in the offing.
A sweetly tempestuous love affair that captivates them... Rafe and Elizabeth conduct a clandestine courtship, despite the pitfalls facing them. Caught up in the thrill, understanding and compassion are the key to unlocking the fear she clings to as well as the depression he battles, but when the time to break the curse arrives, everything goes awry. Unexpected danger stalks them, and it doesn’t stem from a creature of the night. Only the ultimate sacrifice can see them through the darkness to grasp their own fairytale ending.
The Legend of the Cursed Lords
At least a hundred years ago, a handful of irreverent, spoiled lords had their way with female gypsy travelers in the countryside of England. In a fit of spoiled, drunken revelry, they set fire to a wagon and laughed as it burned while the remainder of the caravan fled in terror. That vehicle was owned by an ancient witch, existing through the years from the magic flowing through her veins. She took high exception to the destruction, as well as the uncaring attitudes of those English lords, and under the light of a full moon, the gypsy witch brought forth a powerful curse onto those unfortunate men.
From here to eternity, you will never know peace, never live the life of a full human man. You will always be a slave to the shifter, the beast, or anomaly within. All women who look upon your face will turn away in disgust, for in moments of high emotion, they will see the truth; there is no hiding from that. You will be held in terror once your secret is revealed—for tell them you must. And though you might marry, you are destined for the coldness of a joyless union, unless you find the very heart and secret of life. You will carry the burden alone, for this curse will only belong to you and cannot be transferred or shared with a mate.
But I am benevolent, men with no hearts, no morals, and less feelings. Every five years, during one full moon each quarter, the curse might be broken, if you are wise enough to come out of the shadows and see the error of your ways. Beneath the light of that one full moon when the kiss of unselfish, pure love crosses your lips, and pride, fear, and ego falls, then you might know the freedom of living as a full human with your affliction broken and your offspring unhindered. For yes, unless the curse lifts, any male children you might have will suffer too.
Tread carefully, accursed ones, else you will forever go through life cold, unloved, feared, and isolated.
To this day, those men are referred to as the Cursed Lords of England—the Lords of the Night—and until they find themselves hopelessly and helplessly in love so deep that they cannot survive without winning the heart of their lady, they are doomed to walk the earth hand in hand with their beastly halves, alone.
CHAPTER ONE
December 2, 1815
London, England
A chilly breeze ruffled the hem of his greatcoat and whistled in his ears as he strode through the Mayfair streets. That wind heralded the coming winter, even though it was highly unlikely London would see snow. Yet, sporadic flurries persisted, and that suited the earl just fine, for at least it wasn’t cold rain. Shorter days meant he could go abroad more often over hiding from the sun in his Mayfair townhouse. Now, at two hours until midnight, and he headed to his club instead of going straight to the party he’d promised to attend, thrown by a friend—a cursed lord like him, for respectable members of the ton avoided him—but there was a matter of some urgency he must attend to first.
There always was when it came to his affliction.
Even as he thought about it, the overwhelming hunger deep in his chest made its presence known, and it wasn’t for food a normal British peer might indulge upon. No, this went beyond what mortal men wanted… needed. This craving, this throbbing, ravenous emptiness. This plague dogged his footsteps every moment that he lived, for it was blood he thirsted for.
Blood, that he
always sought, for that was the curse of a vampire.
Shaking his head in an effort to minimize the need, Rafe Andrew Edward Astley, Twelfth Earl of Devon—Rogue to his close contemporaries—reveled in the darkness of the night. It was the only time he went about Town, for the daylight didn’t afford him the freedom, and he’d become accustomed to the odd hours. Entertainment abounded once the veil of darkness fell. He couldn’t abide the sunlight, not while he labored beneath the curse that had afflicted him since birth, for his skin burned as well as his eyes. The day time hours were not his friends, even if the rest of the city stirred then, and they weren’t kind to those like him—both the hours and Polite Society—if there were indeed more men of the night residing in London.
He rather doubted that, for if it was true, he would have known about them or seen them on his nightly excursions. Rafe grunted. No, in this he was quite alone, cursed to walk the Earth as a beast due to a crime one of his ancestors had perpetrated. Until such time as the stipulations were met and the curse was broken.
It was better this way.
When he arrived at the exclusive place he and the other “accursed lords” had created as a safe haven of sorts, he stared at the outside of that edifice. Bête Noire was what they’d christened the club years ago—rather fitting for the nightmares they were—and if a gentleman wished it, he could obtain any sort of scandal here, for no one in London knew who the founding members were let alone the owners.
No one knew about them and what they truly were.
Rafe and his closest friends worked hard to keep it that way. The club offered sanctuary from the slings and arrows of ton society; it was also a way for the Lords of the Night to partake of that same society without needing to immerse themselves in it, not that they were accepted.
He stood on the street while snowflakes drifted lazily around him. The chilly kiss of the ones that hit his cheeks did nothing to cool to heat and hunger twisting in his veins, but he kept his focus on the club’s facade. Unassuming, and done in much the same style as the much-lauded White’s complete with a bow window, Bête Noire was a sanctuary, and many a night had he spent beneath its roof while gripped in the midst of bloodlust.
Such was a godsend, for it meant he didn’t need to stalk the dark streets in search of a victim. In this way, perhaps, the evidence of his curse was more civilized… but not by much.
As pedestrians passed, jostling his elbows, Rafe allowed himself a small, grim, smile. Within those walls he’d find a warm, willing woman who’d give him exactly what he needed without complaint.
It was another reason he and his contemporaries had built the club, for they all harbored secrets deep within their souls that made them slaves to their respective beasts. Discretion was the first rule, and even if someone told the tales, who would believe such fantastical stories? Horrors such as the Lords of the Night didn’t exist in this reality as most people knew it. When there was no other recourse, they could always retreat to their private rooms in Bête Noire and let the beasts rage, away from prying eyes.
As soon as Rafe opened the front door and stepped into the blessed warmth of the club, the familiar sights and sounds wrapped about him. The shuffling of cards reached his ears, for there were several gaming rooms throughout the lower level. Coins clinked and the genteel, sometimes raucous, laughter of gentlemen filled the air. There was a certain amount of comfort here, something he couldn’t find in every day existence.
And for a few moments, he could forget.
He followed the corridors into the bowels of the club; every step throbbed with the unnatural hunger within him. Cigar smoke trailed out of some of the card rooms, while black-clad waiters hurried about, silver trays laden with cut crystal decanters of spirits and glasses upon them.
As he poked his head into his preferred salon, he caught the brilliant green gaze of one of his friends, Evan Sedgewyck, the Earl of Coventry. “What the devil is he doing here tonight?” he murmured to himself, and as curiosity swept over him, he loped through the room and then deposited himself into a chair at the earl’s table. “I assumed you’d be immersed at Mountgarret’s rout, or at the very least bedeviling him for throwing it to begin with.” The viscount was another close contemporary, and it was rare indeed that Valentine entertained, for he despised London life and much preferred his country estate near the sea. No doubt to a merman, being more or less landlocked sat like a prison sentence. But Valentine loved his sister and would do anything for her—even attempt to help launch his nieces into the very society he hated.
Yet the stigma and rumor attached to his name wouldn’t do them many favors. No doubt a good portion of the guests attended to gawk.
The other man snorted. “I’ll arrive fashionably late after I finish my drink—or two. The evening is happening merely to thrust his nieces into society, a grouping of people that will find fault with those girls, even though the curse doesn’t tinge them.”
“I understand.” Mountgarret’s sister had two grown children—both girls barely past their Come Outs—and both looking for husbands, yet because of the viscount’s curse, because of the men he called friends, because of the constant, never forgotten rumors, the bulk of society would eventually shun the girls once they were done scrutinizing them, rabid to pry or perhaps find evidence that the gossip swirling was true. “I wished to avoid the invite, but had no valid excuse this time.”
“Same for me, and since I’ve avoided numerous events tossed my way by people who tolerate me—both within the ton and out—I figured I’d best make an appearance tonight.” The earl’s raven-black hair, so dark that it gleamed nearly blue beneath the candles in the chandeliers, was styled just so and in a fashionable way, while his square-set jaw hinted at stubbornness. The man was a dragon shifter, and such a beast necessitated his avoidance of London most of the time. He couldn’t very well rampage through the streets without drawing notice. An expression of distaste crossed his face. “I do not fancy myself leg-shackled to a school chit, if that’s what Mountgarret intends.”
“I rather doubt he’d want one of us matched with his kin. Every cursed lord with sisters or female relatives has said they won’t see them matched with ones such as us. Why invite trouble?” Rafe protested with a faint chuckle. It was yet another obstacle thrown into his path that would need conquering sooner or later. But the hunger within him demanded immediate attention and would prove difficult to ignore. He wished the earl would get on with it.
Coventry raised an ebony eyebrow. “Why are you not there?”
“I require feeding first.” Another pang rocked his chest, stronger than the rest. If he didn’t take nourishment soon, bloodlust would overcome him and he couldn’t control his beast when that happened. Already, his gums ached where his incisors rested. They would lengthen into fangs, and if he wasn’t somewhere safe…
His friend nodded. “I haven’t seen you around Town for a couple of months. Is all well?”
“Yes,” Rafe managed to bite off, the word nearly pulled from his throat. He didn’t wish to dwell on why he’d fled the capitol following his best friend’s marriage. “I decided to go on a holiday of sorts. Went to Bavaria for a while.” To keep his own sanity. To remain away from temptation. To refrain from thinking about Elizabeth. “It was… easy to hide there, where stories of ones such as myself are ever-present.” The fact he had indeed come upon a couple of vampires while walking the streets at night didn’t escape him. Myths and legends were more widely accepted throughout Europe, especially in small villages and towns.
“I’ll wager it was.” The earl looked him over again. “Your trip overlapped Manchester’s absence. Quite lonely around here with the two of you gone. Valentine grows more maudlin as the full moon nears, so he’s rather a miserable companion of late,” Coventry continued, apparently oblivious to Rafe’s tension. He drained the red wine from his glass.
“Yes, I imagine you found something to help pass the time,” Rafe murmured and didn’t invite further speculation,
for he’d indeed left town to avoid his ducal friend’s townhouse… as well as Donovan’s sister.
“Well, no matter. I shall see you here, at least.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Go do what you must. Once Manchester returns, we shall discuss his recent change in marital status and applaud his luck. I still regret not being in Town to witness all the drama.”
And quite the tale it was.
“Very well.” Hot saliva pooled in Rafe’s mouth and he swallowed to alleviate the relentless throb in his gums. I have to feed. He’d ignored it for too long. Nearly stumbling from the salon and toward the private, back staircase, he shook his head as a red haze fell over his vision. He didn’t begrudge Donovan his marriage. Lord knew the duke had needed the love of a strong female in his life to help soothe his beast. However, Rafe yearned for the same, but his own romantic outlook was a hopeless cause.
He’d had no choice but to interact with Elizabeth—Donovan’s sister—while the duke had been in crisis trying to win over his wife. It had been hell seeing her and knowing their history together prevented anything from growing between them. He’d hated the formal politeness they’d fallen into, the stilted conversation, the brewing tension, for what else could there ever be?
Bitten By the Earl (Lords of the Night Book Two) Page 1
